Homecoming
by Kavi Leighanna
Summary: The fourth time it happens, she's not there for him. Hotch/Prentiss. RATING PLEASE!
1. The first time

**…she's visiting**

The first time it happens Emily's visiting for the first time.

He suspects that it is one hundred percent Garcia's doing, but that doesn't mean he isn't glad for it. They've been struggling a bit, he knows. They always do when one of them is hurting and it always seems more acute when it's Reid that's suffering. It doesn't hurt that Emily's always had a special way with Reid.

They get lucky for the week she's in DC. They're not called away on a case, just the regular consults from the comfort of their own bullpen. Garcia and JJ both take actual time off – and that's when he realizes this has been in planning for a while – and he rushes through a last minute request from Reid. Whatever Reid and Emily do that day seems to brighten the genius' spirit. He's beyond thankful.

That's why he finds himself in front of her hotel room one evening with a nice bottle of wine. It's just to say thank you, he tells himself, because Reid seems better. Plus, they were friends, and he's the only one she hasn't made any over effort to make time with. He'd be more offended, but he is entirely too grateful.

"Hotch!"

She's all happy smiles and he is so glad. There's no gloom, not the kind that hung over her after she returned from Doyle's death.

"Come in!"

He does and his lips twitch as she hums happiness over the bottle of wine. She's got a little suite with a kitchenette, and apparently it comes equipped with a corkscrew. He's glad. It would have been infinitely embarrassing to have forgotten one.

"Where's Jack?" she asks, as she gets to work.

"Ryan's," he answers, standing awkwardly. It feels weird to sit, he thinks, but he can't say that standing feels any more comfortable. He shouldn't be at odds with her presence and he can't put his finger on why he's feeling so off.

"Ryan, Ryan," she murmurs to herself and he finds himself smiling a little bit more. It's a familiar habit. "That's a new one."

"It is," Hotch agrees. "They're in the same class."

"I'm glad to hear he's making new friends," she says with genuine warmth. She knows, probably better than anyone, how worried he'd been about Jack's emotional growth after Haley's death.

And then it hits him, with such sudden ferocity, how much he's missed her.

She's been gone eight months now, lived in England, and he hadn't truly grasped much about her until she was gone. He wishes he felt comfortable enough to e-mail like JJ or Morgan or hell, even Rossi, but while they were friends, they were face-to-face friends. They rarely texted, never e-mailed for anything other than work. All of the information he had about her and she about him had come from shared coffees for a break, or nights out with the team. Still, he knows that there's no one the team relied on more. Blake is great and she's been fitting in just fine, but she's not Emily. No one is Emily.

"Hey." She's waving a wine glass under his nose and he shakes his head as he takes it from her.

"Sorry."

"Not often I catch the great Agent Hotchner lost in his own head. Want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing important."

"Hotch," she says on a bit of a sigh. "Tell me you haven't gone back to your workaholic ways."

"No, no," he promises and he's almost laughing now. Eight months away and she worries the same. It gives him comfort, in a weird way. She hasn't changed, even with all that time over in England. Tea and the Queen and accents and she's still just Emily. Their Emily.

His Emily.

She breathes out a deliberate and dramatic sigh of relief. "How is Beth."

He almost scuffs his toe like a child. "Didn't work out," he says.

He can see, from the look on her face, that she's almost devastated by that revelation. It's always seemed to mean more to her than to anyone else. She'd pushed for Will and JJ, hard; she'd been almost as devastated as Rossi when Carolyn passed. She'd been one of the first ones to tell him to fight, if he could, for his marriage. She cheered for Garcia and Kevin for a long time.

"It happens," he says and it's so, so gently. He's come to terms with it. Sure, he and Beth liked each other well enough, but he also knows now that sometimes you just can't make something work.

She sighs and waves to the couch. They settle easily and fall into small talk. She tells him about her colleagues, he tells her about Jack. She tells him the story of getting hopelessly lost and he laughs because she's the one who has traveled and London's giving her trouble. He tells her about some of their more sensational cases, about Strauss and Blake – whom Emily had met briefly.

"And Dave looks at him and actually asks if the guy needs a hug."

Emily's all but rolling on the floor now. They've made it through the bottle of wine and while he's not drunk, they're both definitely tipsy. It's been a while since he's felt this light, felt this free.

"I wish I had been there!"

He doesn't tell her she could have been. He's been steadfastly ignoring some weird growing resentment that's growing in his gut as she speaks so fondly of her coworkers and the life she's building herself. It's hard. They were a family and while yeah, there's an aspect of letting each kid spread their wings and fly, he really hadn't expected her to fly across an ocean.

"Hotch?"

He's gotten lost in his own musings again. He finds himself heaving a sigh of his own and his eyes dart to the digital clock on the bedside table. "It's late."

He tells himself he imagines seeing her face fall.

"Wow," she says instead and no, she can't be faking shock that poorly. "My flight's early tomorrow too. Or, today now."

She's leaving. It makes his stomach clench hard, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn't have had that much to drink. But that can't be it, because he definitely knows he's sober enough to drive. He follows her to the kitchenette's sink and watches her rinse out the wine glasses. He's stalling and it certainly seems like she is too. He tries not to think about it or put more connotations on it than there are.

Except, when she puts the second glass aside, she looks away, bracing herself on the counter. "I miss you," she says softly, her knuckles white.

He doesn't dare reach out, risk touching her when they're teetering on the brink of something. And he can feel like, like his toes are just over the edge of diving into something that could be the worse decision of his life, or the best risk he's ever taken. He's just not entirely sure what he's jumping into yet. "We miss you, too."

"No," she shakes her head. "You, Hotch. I miss you."

It's a strong, revealing statement from someone who keeps her cards so close to her chest.

"It's stupid."

"Maybe not," he finds himself saying, not even aware he'd given himself permission to do so. He's reaching for her too, cupping her elbow, tugging her just a smidge closer. "You're not a stupid person."

She comes with his gentle tug, her fingers wrapping around his elbow. They're close and he can feel the way her breath fans against his neck. It floats beneath his collar and, much to his embarrassment, he feels his pulse throb. It isn't supposed to be like this. Not with Emily and definitely not with her across a bloody ocean.

But he looks down at her, and she up and him, and the next thing he knows their mouths are meeting.

It's an explosion, not that he's usually one for overused phrasing. There's something in it that he hadn't had with Beth. Beth had been comfortable, a good stepping point after the drama with Haley. This is different, stronger, more consuming. It shocks him to even consider that this was what had been missing with his ex, that Emily could be the one to spark it.

When they break, her hand his cupping his neck and he's got one of his own splayed dangerously low on her back. He's wedged a leg between hers and her breasts push against him with every labored inhale.

"What was that?" she whispers, her gaze searching his.

"I don't know."

She nods and he thinks she's going to pull back – and why isn't he again? – but she leans back far enough to press her lips, feather soft, against his neck. His eyes close, even though he knows that this isn't right, that they can't do this. Sure, they're not working together anymore, but he doesn't want to make it all complicated. She's still one of them, still part of the family, and this can't be anything more than one night.

Even so, it doesn't seem to stop him. On the contrary, his hands wander, slipping under the t-shirt she wears until he can touch the satin skin at her back. Her reaction is almost violent as she arches into him at his gentle touch. It makes him shiver to think that such a simple, light caress can evoke such a passionate reaction and he finds himself doing it again, not even in his right mind, just to hear the desperate little sound she makes.

She retaliates with her tongue, wicked against his ear. She's on her tiptoes and it off-balances her enough to have the alpha male in him jumping at the chance to get his hands on her. He grips her hips, pulling and angling until she's pressing against him in all the right places.

"Aaron," she gasps, and it's a bucket of cold water over both of them. They all but scramble apart. She's panting, her eyes wide. "Oh my God."

He swallows thickly, willing his body to just calm down. He can't. They can't. It's stupid and irresponsible and this is _Emily_. He's never thought of her like this. He's not this man. "We can't."

She nods, even as he sees the flicker of pain that spreads over her face. It's gone in a split second, but he's known too long not to see it. But it doesn't make sense to him, not at all. He doesn't understand the pain.

Her eyes open and there's steel there. It's a resolve that makes his stomach shake and his hands ball into fists. He doesn't like it. "Emily-"

"Thank you for coming," she says, and the cold formality straightens his spine. She hasn't spoken to him like that since the early days, and they've been through way too much for him to accept it now.

So he reaches out, against his better judgment and all the sense in his head. "Don't."

"Sorry?"

He finds himself swallowing, inexplicably nervous. He's always in control, always knows what to do and how to do it. But he's floundering here, unsure and overwhelmed. And he is not a man that gets overwhelmed.

"Don't do that."

She blinks.

He says it, even though she knows what he's talking about. "Don't pull away from me."

It's hypocritical at best. It's exactly what he's done for so many years. Sure, she's not completely innocent of it either, but does he really have the right to ask her not to hide when he can't let go? It's forcing her into a limbo she's not comfortable with, dangling on a precipice with the decision in his hands. He knows better.

He stands there and looks at her, really and truly looks. Years of practice means he can read her micro-expressions. The yearning is there, or maybe it's just plain want. But there's wariness too, worry that this is more than they can let it be. It's not like they're not already attached to each other, but are either of them really the type to be able to have this and then nothing?

_I don't care_.

The thought floats across his mind as he looks down at her, as his fingers stroke the bare skin of her arm. He sees the fissions of pleasure as they ripple up and down her spine. It wouldn't take much now, he knows, to throw them over the precipice.

So he does.

In a move that is probably more characteristic of his _much_ younger days, he pulls her close and presses his mouth to hers. There's a moment, a split second really, as she takes in what's happening. Then she's meeting him, stroke for stroke, press for press. His tongue brushes her mouth, plays against her lips and she opens with such an aroused groan that his fingers dig into her skin. Her knees buckle and the knowledge that _he_ is responsible for that is such a thrill.

Her arms wrap around his neck, holding on as best she can. He wraps an arm around her back, managing to slide his hand beneath the casual t-shirt she wears. Her skin is warm and smooth as he splays his palm over her back. He can feel the press of her shoulder blades, can press his palm against the knobs of her spine, things he's only imagined on the nights he remembers her time with the team.

She pulls away, her breathing harsh and shallow. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen and her eyes are dark. His fingers dig into her spine as she steps back, but she's insistent and a moment later she's watching him with blown pupils as she lifts the shirt above her head. Her skin is not flawless, of course, and it's insane that the scars she wears with pride are a turn on. He reaches for her as she drops her shirt, his fingers reaching immediately for the little clover she's had tattooed just above her breast.

"Em-"

She surges forward. She doesn't want to hear words. She doesn't need them, and she certainly doesn't want his pity for what she's been through. She's made her choices and she stands by every single one of them, if only because it's brought her to this moment. If only because it's turned her into this woman.

His head bends, because she's given him permission, and he presses the gentlest of kisses against that burn. He feels her breath catch in her throat, hears it hitch, and drags his fingers softly down her side.

"Oh."

Her fingers thread through his hair as he takes a chance and brushes his tongue against her scarred flesh. His fingers slide along the edge of her jeans, callouses against soft skin and he kisses his way back up to her mouth. She tugs him in by the belt until she's fit herself against every angle of his body. Only then does she move her hands to shove his suit jacket from his shoulders and yank his tie from around his neck. Her fingers shake as she slides his buttons through their holes, discarding the white shirt that's as much a part of him as breathing.

She's careless when she discards it though – granted there's a split second where she pictures it on the floor, unwilling to look away from him and the thrill is almost more arousing than his mouth and his hands – already brushing her fingers through his chest hair. He's no Derek Morgan, but he holds his own. He has to, as an agent. She finds herself appreciating it even more as he wraps his hands around her thighs and lifts.

He grins at her squeak, but she wraps her legs around him regardless. She uses her arms to settle against him just right, even as he stumbles to the bed. She laughs as he pitches them forward and he's surprised at how much the sound races through him. He's never been one to laugh when faced with a half-naked woman, but he finds that the happiness makes him warm. She arches against his palms against her waist, squirms when his lips trail across her stomach and moans when he finds an erogenous zone against her collarbone.

It isn't until she reaches around to undo her bra that he realizes just how one-sided all of this stripping has been. She's impatient, but he is too, and he can't quite figure out why he hasn't pulled the bra from her earlier. God, with the top half bare she's magnificent and his hands turn almost reverent as his every touch turns gentle. His fingers trail under her breasts, along the sensitive skin and almost raw nerve endings. She sparks, gasping as his fingers spread, palming a breast. Her nipple hardens right in his palm and he has to look up, to see her face, to see her eyes wide and glazed. His fingers graze over her other nipple, sliding, flicking, pressing.

She's drowning, she thinks, and wonders why the hell they didn't do this sooner. She can't say her breasts have ever been her most sensitive zone, but the way the pleasure is sliding through her system leaves her barely enough room to remember breathing, let alone anything else. Her nails dig into the skin just below his ribs and she feels his mouth between her breasts. Even though she knows what's coming next, her back arches and she lets out a moan when his mouth latches on.

He's not sure what it is about her, isn't sure if it's just so many suppressed fantasies, but he doesn't think when he touches her. His tongue swipes at her nipple, his teeth digging into flesh and he revels in the cries she releases. He drags her so far under that he can drag his tongue down her stomach and have her jeans undone before she even really realizes what's going on. God, it's been forever since anyone has taken her so far out of her mind that she loses track of what's going on.

"Hotch."

He surges up, pressing his mouth to hers again. She slides her hands down his back and off of him to push her jeans over her hips. He tangles his fingers in her underwear as her hands drag up his back to curl in his hair. She tugs and he rises, kissing her once, slow and thorough before pushing himself to his knees. He's yanking her pants down while she's unfastening his and with a few deft kicks they're both naked.

She groans when his skin presses against hers, spreading her thighs to cradle his hips. She kisses him, but he doesn't linger. He drags his mouth down her chest to her hip and she gasps as his tongue brushes against nerves so close to the surface. He does it again and she whimpers. He likes the sound so much that he doesn't let up, even applies teeth and suction until there's a bright red mark on her skin. He hadn't meant to leave any reminders, but his fingers trail over it gently when he pulls back and he can't help the triumphant possession that slides through his blood.

She's his.

Even though she isn't.

He doesn't waste time or play around after that. His fingers slip down between her thighs, sliding through damp curls. His fingers move easily against her flesh and she shudders.

"Hotch," she breathes, just loud enough for him to hear.

He grins and presses in with more purpose, applying his mouth to her thigh as he brushes his fingers over her. Her hips undulate with the motion until he twists his wrist, slipping inside. Her breath catches before one of her hands leaves his hair to press between her legs. He chokes, actually chokes as he watches her fingers and his. Her hand tightens in his hair and he glances up, just for a second, to see the pleasure and smugness on her face. Of course she's smug. He's not a teenager for God's sake, yet the sight of Emily touching herself has him frozen to the spot, watching his fingers disappear inside her even as he watches her fingers press and shift and flick. He presses his teeth into her thigh for her cheek, just enough that she definitely feels it. Her other hand threads through his hair, tightening and tugging.

Then he moves his fingers.

She keens, a long drawn out noise as his fingers slide into her again. He twists and curves them until her lower body lifts from the bed. He takes his time now, even though he can't say he's one for individual gratification. There's just something more, he thinks, when that gratification is almost simultaneous and mutual. Then again, he's not one for sex like this and here he is, with his once-subordinate beneath him, writhing and begging with her body for a release he can feel building in her. She's fluttering around his fingers now, her breath stuttering. Her eyes are closed, her face a mask of concentration and pressure. He keeps his fingers inside, stroking, pressing, until with a little hiccup, her body stiffens, every muscle pulling taut.

He's beside her when she floats down, pressed against her side, even as his fingers gently stroke her hip and stomach. She leans up. His mouth meets hers, slow and soft, a distinct difference from their heated tangle of just moments ago. She can feel every callous against her skin, wonders if she's imagining the hot way they catch on the smoothness of her own. Her hand reaches up, pressing against his cheek as they kiss. She turns into him, lifting a leg over his hip. Somewhere along the way, during her 'recovery' she imagines, he's done away with the rest of his clothing.

She's strong enough that it doesn't take much to shift on top, and her hair falls around both of them. She laughs when it gets caught in their kiss and he echoes it, threading his fingers through the tresses to keep it back. Then it's her turn, her turn to let her hands wander, to drive him up that hill of pleasure. She does it with lips, hands, teeth, tongue and not once does she touch where he aches for it. It's arousing in itself, so much so that when she reaches for protection, he's stiff against her inner thigh. She doesn't make a production of protection, and she doesn't tease him once it's on. Instead, she slides down on him, ignoring the insistent press of her hips that attempts to slow her descent.

Then he's fully seated inside and how they got there becomes so totally irrelevant. What matters now is that they are and it is glorious. She doesn't wait, not really. She shifts, undulating rather than lifting. Her head drops forward as she braces her hands on his chest, her nails digging in despite herself. She figures that a man like Hotch, he'll flip them any minute, so she drives herself up as high as she can, anticipating. She feels his hands squeeze her hips, feels him lift with every push of her hips.

"Emily. Come on."

She whimpers because his voice is deep, raspy, and slides right through her. Her head falls forward, hair obscuring her vision, but it doesn't matter. Her eyes are closed tight, sensation after sensation firing along her nerve endings. She can smell him, feel him and when one of his hands tangles in her hair to yank her down to his mouth, taste him too. She makes a desperate sound in her throat and he presses against her lower back, curving her spine. She gasps as he reaches deeper, presses just right inside her and he grins into their kiss. She has to break it for air, resting her forehead against his while she catches her breath as best she can.

"Let go, Emily. Come on," he whispers, tilting his head to catch her cheek, the side of her nose, her ears. She feels it building and building and building. She's teetering on the edge she can feel it, then he yanks her down, hard. He presses just right, inside her and on her and she flies apart.

When she comes back to herself – again and that's a thrill on it's own – he's flipped them. She barks out a laugh, then reaches up to cup his face, to smooth her thumb over those gorgeous high cheekbones. "Your turn."

He nods, and threads his fingers through her hair. It tugs, but she's languishing in pleasure, pushing him higher, and higher with her mouth on his neck and collarbones. Her hands slide down his back and grip his ass, but it takes her teeth on his ear to send him flying over the edge. Her hands gentle on his back, smoothing rather than caressing. His head falls to her pillow and she can't even say she cares that his weight is pushing her into the mattress. It feels good and she turns her head to bury her nose in his neck.

When his breath normalizes, his hands squeeze the back of her neck and she knows what's coming next.

"I should go."

"Yeah." She doesn't bother to argue. She knows it's true. He should go, go home, get Jack, all of that.

"It's a sleepover."

Emily blinks. It takes her very sated brain a moment to make the connection.

Jack's at a sleepover.

He has no responsibilities at home.

She looks up at him, hoping that there isn't a whole bunch of emotion written all over her face. She feels like since Doyle she's started to suck at keeping things inside. "I hate hotel rooms."

He presses his lips to her forehead gently. "Okay."

He's gone when she wakes the next morning, not that she's surprised. There's no evidence of him there and she finds herself curling up tighter in the blankets. She's happy, content even with what happened, but there's a lingering cold loneliness that's also settled in her bones. It takes her ten minutes to drag herself from bed. She checks her phone first, smiling at the departing messages from Garcia, JJ, even Reid, Morgan and Rossi.

Nothing from Hotch.

She allows herself to acknowledge a brief moment of disappointment before she gathers her things. She's reaching for the phone to call for a cab to the airport when she spies the note on the nearby hotel paper.

_Emily,  
I miss you too._

In a fit of sentimentality, she folds it up and packs it safely in her suitcase.

And if, in the coming weeks, she pulls it out more than she'd like to admit, well, only Sergio will know.

* * *

_I… don't know how I feel about this. It's been itching at me and I've been picking at it, so I'm sorry if it feels disjointed or if there's something off about it. Same with mistakes. All mine. _

_Thanks for reading!_


	2. The second time

**…he's on her case**

The second time, he's on her case.

It sounds much more pleasurable than it is, really, but it's terrorism. She's got the history – both with the subject and the team – and the language. It's just, she assumes, easier.

Which is a load of crock.

It's not easier for her.

A lot of their first time kind of haunts her. She remembers it, so very vividly. She can remember every stroke of his hands, every brush of his mouth and of course it's not because that's the only thing that's been keeping her moving forward since that night. Phantom lips, phantom fingers and sometimes, if she thinks hard enough, even his smell is there.

But she's the queen of compartmentalization.

She's cordial, even welcoming, which is hilarious since technically she's the visitor. The team welcomes her back the same way they did the first time and she even gets the warmest of hugs from Dave, right in the middle of a police bullpen. She thinks nothing of it, because this is her team, still in many senses the only true family she's known. And everything with Hotch aside, she still misses them terribly.

But she feels it acutely, the tension that seems to sit there. It's not a bad tension, she doesn't think, but it hums over her skin every time he's near. It drives her batty for three days before she finally gives in.

JJ's helpful enough – mostly because it wouldn't be the first time that Emily and Hotch were up late discussing case specifics – but she's still terribly nervous as she steps off the elevator late one night. She knows he's not sleeping. They're too much alike that way. Regardless, she has to suck in the deepest of breaths before knocking.

"Emily."

That tension hums over her skin and speeds her pulse. She doesn't know what to say, how to approach it. She looks up and down the hall, glancing for people, and when there are none, she grabs him by the neck and yanks him down to her mouth. There's a minute, more like a split second before he's wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in tight. She squeaks, because it's entirely unexpected. She'd honestly believed he'd push her away. Instead, his arms are bands around her back, his fingers digging into the skin of her waist like there's no way in hell he's letting her go.

They pull back when breathing becomes an issue and Emily realizes she's barely balancing on her toes. Her entire weight is pressed against him and his eyes are dark as they look down at her.

"Oh," she breathes. A smile creeps over her face as she leans forward, resting her forehead on his. "Hi."

"Hi."

Then he's kissing her again, tugging her into his hotel room and using her back to close the door. She can't say she's against the show of strength, nor the way her body responds to it. She doesn't fight him, just keeps her arms wrapped around his neck as his reach down to grip her thighs. She gives a little bounce on her toes and his hands tighten, lifting her and using the door to hold her against him. Her legs wrap around his hips and she roll her hips into his. It's a shock of pleasure to her system and she groans softly into the play of their mouths. He boosts her again, so his mouth is level with her neck and he applies his mouth to her soft skin.

"It was worse this time," she says, most of her lost in the haze of pleasure. He's real this time, his hands, his mouth, his hips, his scent. Her dreams and daydreams are alive and against her and she barely knows what's happening beyond him and _them_. "The e-mails and _knowing_. Just knowing what it feels like, all of this. You and me and this."

She emphasizes her point with a roll of her hips, pressing just right against him. His teeth sink into her collarbone like he's just as desperate as she is. And she doesn't care that she's going to have to wear scarves to cover that mark because the thrill it sends through her has her throwing her head back against the door with a thud. He lets out a sound that sounds slightly sympathetic and trails a hand up her body to cup the back of her head. She cups his jaw in her hand to bring his mouth to hers.

It's wet and messy and unrestrained. She groans into the kiss, battling his tongue, threading her hands through his hair and tugging, just slightly. He slides an arm under her ass, holding her up and fisting his hand in her hair. She squeaks as he pulls her from the door, stumbling down the short hall to the bed that dominates the space. The mattress is hard and almost as unyielding as the door, but it does press her against him in all the right places as they collapse to its surface. His fingers slip beneath her blouse and brush against her stomach. The muscles jolt and tremble at his touch and it makes her gasp against his mouth. He smiles into their kiss as if he's proud that he's the one making her shake.

Her hands clench hard in his hair as he trails his fingers so gently, so softly, across her skin. Her head tilts back to break their kiss and suck in air. There's a part of her separate from the pleasure that's laughing at how he's taken control from her, despite the fact that she'd been the one to initiate this coupling. She doesn't even realize her hips are rolling rhythmically against his until he pins them to the bed.

"You need to stop that."

Her eyes fly open to see him staring down at her and she swallows. Her hands come up to his shirt, the sleeves rolled up in a way that's only characteristic of a late-night-on-a-case Hotch. It's easier to dispose of it than if he'd been in his full SSAIC uniform and she's grateful for it. She runs her fingers over his chest, feeling the way his chest expands and contracts with his labored breath. He doesn't let her play long though, grasping her hands and holding them by her head. She sees the request in his eyes and nods, just slightly. She keeps her hands up while he pulls apart the buttons of her shirt.

Then he's pulling her up and disposing of her blouse. His hands are slower when they return to her body, releasing the clasp of her bra and pulling the straps almost reverently down her arms. The change is a stark contrast to the way they started and it makes her breath catch. She moves her own hands, settling them gently on his hips, then trailing her nails up his sides. He retaliates by pressing his mouth to hers as he tips her backwards once more, looming over her with his hands braced by her head.

He drops to an elbow and shifts to the side, supporting himself on one arm while the other traces random patterns over her skin. She slides one hand into his hair, clenching as his fingers cup a breast, weighing it in his palm. He plucks at the tip, hardening it until every touch is almost painful. Then he bends his head, enveloping the other peak in his mouth. She gasps for air as he takes his time exploring, testing different pressures. He's testing them both, watching and listening, repeating himself when she releases a sound he's particularly fond of.

When he finally leaves her chest, it's sore and raw and every brush of air against her skin makes her tremble and shiver. It's a stark contrast to his hot mouth as it trails down her stomach, his fingers tugging her pants open and down her thighs. She shifts her hips, lifting them so he can pull it all down her legs and off. He settles at her hips, sliding his hands under her bare thighs. Emily's breath catches as she realizes what's coming next.

And even though she knows, it still comes as a shock when he uses one hand to spread her open before he applies his tongue. She chokes on air, eyes flying open as pleasure threads through her body. Her skin flushes as one hand tangles in the sheets, trying to keep her grounded as he pushes her higher and higher. It's not enough, however, and she whines as she hovers just on the edge of stars. Her hips push up, looking for more, more, more. He holds off, aware of what she's looking for and pushing her ever higher by shifting the placement and pressure of his tongue.

When she can't take anymore, she tugs hard on his hair. He looks up the plains of her body, eyes heated but smug. She licks her dry lips and holds his eyes.

"More."

She's not sure if it's the tone or the look on his face, but he pushes two fingers in easily as he returns his mouth to her centre. She hitches out a moan, so high that it takes barely anything, just a stroke in exactly the right spot inside and the insistent pressure of his tongue to send her flying.

Unlike last time, he doesn't move back up her body. Instead, he presses his wet mouth gently to her hip, stroking her through her peak. When she's settled, when she pushes into his touch, he grins into her thigh and kisses his way up her leg again. She groans, shifting when he hits a spot that's still sensitive and a little tender. He plays with pressure again, the same way he had on her chest and she realizes he's learning her. It does something to her heart, maybe breaks it open a little bit, because this isn't anything real. Then she chokes on air as he sends her spinning again.

He's resting his chin against her stomach when she can make her brain work again, just looking up at her. She feels vulnerable under his gaze, but slides the hand that's made an absolute mess of his hair to his cheek. He grins at her as she brushes her fingertips against his skin, showing his dimples and making her smile in response. It's a quiet moment, out of time as they just look at each other. She slips her fingers under his chin and he moves willingly when she applies just a hint of pressure. She can taste herself in his mouth as he kisses her and feels her heart clench in her chest.

She cups his face when they separate. "Inside," she says quietly.

He can't deny her, and he can't deny himself, but he still kisses her warmly as he reaches down to get rid of his pants. He pauses just as he's about to slide into her.

"Protection."

He's surprised when a blush spreads over her face, one unassociated with pleasure. "My pocket."

She was confident, he realizes, or maybe just determined and he's more than a little surprised. He can't say he's ever been the type that women have gone after and definitely not since he took on the SSAIC position. He knows he's domineering, intimidating, but Emily doesn't seem to care. More than that, she wants him, enough to come prepared. It wasn't an impulse.

He pulls away from her to don protection. Then he's back on top of her, kissing her thoroughly. She cups his face and despite the heat of every moment since she'd shown up at her hotel room, this kiss is sweet and intensely personal.

"It was worse," he whispers into her mouth and her breath catches as he slides inside. Her hands slide down to clench at his neck and her head tilts back as she flutters around him. She's sensitive, but not painfully so, just enough that his every push sends her nerve endings sizzling. He barely pauses to let her adjust to him before he's moving. The only soundtrack for a few moments is their harsh breathing and moans. Then she tugs his head down.

She whispers how he feels in his ear, how she feels, how they feel. She tells him about every press of his skin, the feeling of his callouses against her hip, under her shoulder. His hips move faster. She slides her hands down his back, clenching one around one well-built ass cheek and tilting her hips. He presses against her just right and she sighs, not because he's pushing her high enough to tumble over that peak with him but because despite how wrung out and sated she feels, she likes the jolt of him through her bones.

"Aaron," she murmurs into his ear. "Let go."

And he does with a groan, stilling against her, with one last stutter of his hips. Then he collapses on top of her and she wraps her arms around him.

"I almost called," she whispers, mouth moving against his ear, once she's caught her breath. "A hundred times, I almost picked up the phone."

He swallows. He knows the feeling, the million times he's reached for the phone on dark days, days he knows she'll understand.

"It means something, doesn't it?" she asks softly, fingers clenching where they're wrapped around his shoulders. There's fear in the tensing of her muscles, like they've started something dangerous and painful.

"It can't be anything," he tells her, even as he pulls her closer against him and doesn't disagree. It's agreement in itself, that their 'twice' is more than just sex. "We're across the ocean from each other. We have separate lives."

"It can be this," she says. Meaning without attachment, she tells herself, even if she knows she's fighting a losing battle. She's going to get hurt, and she knows it, even as she suggests it. "Whenever we can."

He doesn't agree, but they fall asleep there, and the next night, he shows up at her door. For the duration of the case, one hotel room is almost empty. They soak up the time together, even if they play professional during the day. No one blinks when he offers to take her to the airport when they've wrapped up their work and it's a shockingly difficult goodbye.

"Um, I'll e-mail you," she says quietly, avoiding his eyes as they pull up to the departures drop off.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice just as low.

Her fingers itch to reach for him, but this isn't like that. This isn't emotional, even if it means something and she can't reach for him. It'll make this more than it is. She just needs to-

He grasps her chin gently, pulling her across to console until his mouth meets hers. She melts, just a little, and kisses him back. She presses her lips together when she backs away, as if she can seal the taste of him into her lips.

"Until next time," she whispers, because she can't bring herself to say goodbye this time.

He nods and says nothing as she climbs from the SUV, reaching into the back seat for her bag. Then she's in the airport and gone from his sight. He refuses to be the cliché, to admit that she took a piece of him with her and puts the SUV in drive. He has a team to get back to and paperwork to do.

Even if he can't get his mind off the woman a whole ocean away.

* * *

_HA! Points to those of you who figured out that though this is listed as complete there was a part II in the works. I didn't expect to write it that fast when there are at least three other things I should be working on, but hey. Could be fun. Was fun! And it's hard to say no when 16 reviews show up in your inbox after you've been gone as long as I have!_

_Hopefully, this one lived up to the last one. _

_Thanks for reading!_


	3. The third time

**…they're across the ocean**

The third time it happens, they're not even on the same continent, let alone in the same country.

She talks to all of them here and there. She needs it as much as they do. It's a connection to the closest thing she's got to a family. Mostly, she lets them call her, on top of the emails. She hears from Derek every two or three days, Reid more often than that. She exchanges more emails then phone calls with Dave but every two weeks or so, her phone rings. She talks to JJ and Penelope whenever they get a minute, and she calls them about as often as they call her. This time, even Hotch calls here and there, though it's sporadic and entirely unpredictable.

But, more often than not, she spends her evenings alone. She's generally okay with it, because it's so much effort to go out and worry about what everyone else is thinking and her training kicks in too often for her to have a good time. It's one of those evenings, where she's alone in her flat, where everything coalesces and she walks, however inadvertently, into their third time.

It's been a long day. A very long day. It's not her first, it's not her last, so she has a pretty good idea of what she needs to do to be able to get up in the morning. She takes a moment when she walks in, leaning against her front door as she locks it. Then it's off to her 'emergency' stash of wine. With a large glass of red in hand, she digs into her literature, withdrawing a romance novel Penelope had sent her way. She's not a romance reader, really, but she figures it's about as light as she can get given the normal contents of her bookshelf. She strips in the bedroom while the bath runs, then takes book and wine into the tub.

The book, she discovers quickly, is not going to be as relaxing as she'd thought. It's erotic and has her skin tingling as she takes it in. Once she's in it, she's absorbed, and the water goes cold against her heated flesh long before she realizes it. She's not finished the novel when she climbs from the tub and moves, naked, into her bedroom.

She curls up with the novel and barely notices when her fingers start to drift across her own skin. At first, it's just a gentle brush of her fingertips against her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone, but as the heroin is slowly, sensually stripped bare by her lover, her hand is brushing over her swollen breasts and hardening nipples. She copies the movements of the hero's hands as she reads, licking her fingers and pinching her nipples as the book describes his mouth over the hard peaks of his paramour, imagining teeth and tongue rather than her own fingers.

Eventually, she doesn't need the book anymore, and her hands are sliding over her stomach, the book having fallen to the wayside. Her fingers stroke over her stomach, sliding over the sensitive nerve endings at her hips. She takes her time working inwards, brushing against the crease of her thigh.

She closes her eyes then, conjuring a man's calloused hands as her fingers dance up her inner thigh. She can feel the rough pads of his fingers against her sensitive skin. She moans into the silence of her flat. Her hips arch as her hands get closer and closer to the apex of her thighs. Her imaginary lover eventually takes pity on her, flingers sliding into to brush against her wet heat.

Her breath backs up in her lungs as her fingers slip and slide through her wetness. But it's not her fingers in her mind's eye. They're his, moving with confidence and purpose. She has her hands in his dark hair and can imagine the brown of his eyes eclipsed by the black of his pupils.

"Aaron," she breathes, just as she slips two fingers into her body and her phone rings shrilly beside her.

Her eyes fly open as her fantasy fades. Her body still pulses as she considers not answering, but guilt grabs her too tight and she reaches for the offending device.

"Prentiss."

There's nothing for a moment. Then, "Emily?"

"Hotch," she breathes, her eyes flying open. Oh God. The man haunting her fantasies is on the other end of the phone. "Hi."

"Hello," he replies. He sounds exhausted and it makes his voice low and rough. It's so not helping her tonight. "Is it a bad time?"

"No," she manages, because it's not really. Sure, she'd just been imagining him with his hand between her thighs, but she's alone and willing to talk. She has to clear her throat though to sound normal because while they have a Thing when she's stateside, they're across a vast ocean now. She doesn't need to make it worse. "I'm just in bed."

God. God, why had she even said that?

He swears softly. "It's late, I'm sorry."

"No," she says again, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate to his ears as it does to hers. "It's okay."

Well, it's not, but he calls so rarely and the law tones of his voice, she knows, will fuel her fantasies for months. She just has to resist touching herself, has to keep herself from imagining that voice talking her to the most intense climax of her life. Her free hand balls in the sheets. "How are you?"

"Good," he replies. "We just got back from Des Moines."

She hums. "Did you catch him?"

"We always do."

She bites her lip against a whimper. He's so rarely cocky, despite everything he's got going for him, and hearing the triumph and confidence in his voice is a shocking turn on. Or maybe she's just too damn hot to care.

"Emily?"

Jesus, hearing her name like that does not help. She squeezes her thighs together, realizing she's been quiet too long. She can make it. "Tell me about the case," she requests, because she doesn't trust herself to talk without giving herself away.

He can be shockingly candid on the phone, talking for hours. It makes her feel warm because she knows how special it is. And he speaks to her. He talks to her about everything and normally, she loves to listen. This time, she's torn. His voice in her ear is not helping her arousal. On the other hand, she imagines him across the room, sitting in the chair she has in the corner and using that rough dark voice to talk her to orgasm.

The picture makes her whimper and his voice stops abruptly in her ear.

"Emily? Are you okay?"

_Just horny, _she thinks to herself, _hot and wet and your voice isn't helping._

"Pardon me?"

Her eyes fly open. "Wh-What?"

"You just-" She can almost hear him swallow on the other end of the phone.

"I'm – I'm going to go," she says, embarrassed and yet it doesn't seem to have cooled her arousal one bit. Her stomach still jumps beneath fingers she can no longer keep still. She can't hold out any longer.

"No."

Her breath catches.

"Emily-" His voice has lowered, as if that was possible, and she can easily conjure memories of the two times he's been in her bed. She moans.

"I know that noise," he tells her. "I remember that noise."

"Hotch-"

"What are you thinking about?"

She whimpers, her fingers sliding lower, just brushing her clit. "You," she admits because she can't help herself.

She hears him groan and gasps.

"Tell me," he requests.

"Oh God," she sobs, feeling almost delirious as her fingers play at her core. "It's your hands, your fingers between my thighs."

"I bet you're gorgeous," he tells her, and it shocks her. The surprise does nothing to alleviate the boiling of her blood. It's the opposite, the uncharacteristic heated words making her hips tilt.

"Talk to me," she says. "Please, Aaron."

He groans. "I can see the pleasure on your face. The way your mouth parts. The darkness of your eyes, glazed over."

She whimpers, ignoring the little voice that says they shouldn't be doing this. It's only going to make her loneliness more acute, going to make everything worse in the morning. She doesn't care. "Touch me," she requests instead. "Aaron, I need you."

"You've got me," he says immediately. "I'm there. It's my hand, Emily, my fingers sliding inside."

Her fingers follow his veiled request. They curl inside her and send her nerve endings singing.

"God, you're beautiful. Wet and hot around my hand. And so desperate for it, aren't you? Can you feel the way you tighten around my fingers? Feel the way they push inside?"

Of course she can. Her blood is pounding, her eyes fluttering against the pleasure infusing her body. She moans. "What now?"

He groans. "Press your thumb against your clit."

She gasps and it becomes a groan as his explicit demand sends her pleasure spiraling higher. She's so wet that she has to press down hard, almost rough, with her thumb. "So good, Aaron. Harder, please."

"Fuck yourself," he demands, his voice rough, so low in her ears. "Hard and fast, Emily."

She bites her lip as she does what she's told, pulling her fingers out as far as she can without removing her thumb from the delicious press against her clit. Then her fingers are back inside, a little bit rough as she finds the spot inside her that makes her hips arch wantonly. "More," she requests again. "Aaron, please."

He tells her in that low rough voice about what she looks like, how he remembers the way she responds to his every touch. He tells her he wishes he were there to see the aroused flush of her cheeks. Her tells her how fast to move her fingers, how to press her thumb. He makes her put her phone on speaker so she can use her now-free hand to knead at her breasts. He listens as she climbs higher and higher, ordering her to slow her thrusting fingers when she's teetering on the edge.

When she pushes them back inside, she cries out as he demands she push further, harder. The pads of her fingers brush against raw nerve endings and she feels her muscles clench around the invasion, greedy for more. He encourages her to thrust harder, faster and this time doesn't stop her as she climbs towards her peak of pleasure.

"Don't stop Emily," he requests. "Keep going, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

She all but screams as she plunges into her orgasm, feeling the pleasure peak again when she hears a strangled moan from his end. God, she hadn't even thought about him touching himself, but she can't say the picture does nothing for her.

She sighs as she floats down, running her hands along still-tingling nerve endings. "Hotch, that was-"

"Aaron," he corrects, voice hoarse. "Emily-"

"Aaron," she agrees, switching the phone off speaker as she works her covers down far enough to slip beneath them. She should clean up, she thinks, but she's not sure she has the energy.

"Emily I didn't-"

"I know." Because she hadn't picked up the phone expecting this either. She can't say she's upset though as she curls contentedly beneath the sheets. "No regrets."

He hums.

Her eyes flutter, sleep crawling up to over take her. "Stay," she says. "Please."

"Yes," he promises, and she feels a shiver race over her skin. It's not longing she hears, she tells herself. They're not like that. "Goodnight, Emily."

She barely manages her own goodnight before sleep claims her.

The next morning, there's a text on her phone. It's simple, in fact there's really nothing to it, but she finds herself, once again, at a loss.

_Good morning, Emily._

It takes her half an hour of staring at that message to drag herself from bed and she ponders it all day giving no response until she gets home and has crawled into bed again. It can't hurt, she'd decided on her way home. They already have a Thing.

Still, she chews her lip as she types out _Good night, Aaron._

And changes the landscape of their relationship again.

* * *

_Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write phone sex and have it mean something?! Holy crap! I probably have 20 or 30 versions of this started in notebooks. It's ridiculous. _

_BUT! It's done. And I think I have the next one started. I don't totally know yet. Thankfully, they all sit as oneshots so as much as I know you guys are probably at the edge of your seat waiting for the next one (who doesn't like Hotch/Prentiss smut here and there) I love that I can just let the muse control this one. I write when I feel like it, because I know I'm not leaving you guys with a real cliffhanger :) _

_Hope you enjoyed. And that it doesn't seem to crazy for them. Heh. _


	4. The fourth time

**… it's the last thing she anticipated**

The fourth time it happens, it's the last thing she could have anticipated.

She's stateside again, though it's not about Aaron. She'd heard through the grapevine – Penelope – about the latest fiasco with Derek's childhood mentor and decides she'd had enough. She books a week off and gets on a plane.

Derek is understandably surprised when he shows up on her doorstep, bag in hand. But Emily just glares and pushes past him.

"Hello to you too."

She rolls her eyes with her back to him and drops her bag. Then she's whirled on him and yanked him into a hug. "Garcia told me," she says, holding tighter when he goes stiff. "Don't."

He sighs, but then he's clinging to her. "There's nothing to say."

But she knows how much it shakes him.

He's been ordered to take time off. It's only a day but they spend it doing nothing but loafing around his house. She helps him clear out his basement, then leaves him banging around. She pretends that she's still in London as she answers text messages and a couple of quick emails, even straightens his living room and adds purple notes to his casefiles. Nothing about what she's doing is any different than things she's done with Derek in the past.

When he finally emerges from the basement, he picks her up from the couch and just holds her for a few minutes until she bats him away.

"You're sweaty and gross," she informs him with a dramatic wrinkle of her nose.

He chuckles, then presses a kiss to her cheek.

They spend the evening watching movies, exchanging mocking commentary as they lounge. He's gone when she wakes, but he's left her sinful waffles in the fridge.

She gets the text mid-afternoon, just as she's taking in some of her favourite exhibits at the Smithsonians.

_Get pretty, Prentiss. We're painting the town red._

It's almost immediately followed by a number of angry text messages from the rest of the team, scolding her for keeping her presence so secret. She laughs to herself, then heads to Georgetown.

When she walks into the bar Derek's chosen for the evening, Penelope, JJ, Will and Derek are already seated in a large booth. She laughs at the raucous greeting she receives and accepts hugs, even a couple of slaps.

"You didn't even _hint_ you were coming in," Penelope exclaims, snuggling into her side for a moment. Then she's back, pressed against Derek as Emily and JJ exchange a long-suffering eyeroll.

"It was an… impulse," Emily offers, settling in, only to stand a moment later to greet Spencer as he returns with drinks.

He grins widely and hugs her tight. "A waitress is bringing the rest."

He's pink and Emily grins because he looks so embarrassed about it. It makes her happy though, to see him recovering from everything with Maeve.

Dave shows up a few moments later, cuing a large and enthusiastic greeting. He's grinning as he pulls Emily from her seat. She laughs brightly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"You look beautiful," he tells her sincerely. "Blake won't be joining us. Seems her husband's in town."

She doesn't ask about Hotch. She knows better than to give herself away like that. She hasn't said a thing to anyone about what she and Hotch are doing. She's not about to give them ammunition.

Since their… phone conversation, they've been in contact more than ever. They exchange emails whenever they get a chance and she's been shocked at how, well, candid, even downright dirty some of those emails have been. They've talked on the phone too, more than every before. She's thought about adding Skype, that visual element, but can't seem to bring herself to do it. Phone and email, well there's an odd anonymity to it. She can pretend she doesn't cling to every moment she gets. She can pretend that she doesn't think about him every minute, that she's not worried she's in too deep to find her way out again.

But that's a worry for another day. Right now, she's getting a reprieve, a moment with her friends, her family. She can see the way life is ragging on them. She can still see the dark bags under Spencer's eyes, the strain on Will and JJ's faces. Dave looks a little greyer than she remembers and even Penelope seems to have aged more than Emily can remember. A night out, she thinks, will do them all a little bit of good.

She's not sure how long they're there. She's being yanked between Dave and Derek on what serves as a dance floor. She's laughing as Dave dips her – and the song definitely does not call for it – before spinning her into Derek's smooth-moving hips, when she feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She knows, long before Derek leans into her ear, just who has walked into the bar.

"Hotch made it."

She pulls back, a little self-consciously, because something in her rebels at the idea of Hotch seeing her dancing with Derek like that. She can feel Hotch moving through the crowd that has amassed, can feel his gaze over her body like a physical caress. Even her breath has sped up and she'd bet her skin has flushed. She can't help herself. He's been helping her hands and fueling her fantasies, but it's all her imagination. Having him here, in arm's reach, makes her blood sing in anticipation.

Eventually, as always, Derek's lured away by a group of women a few feet away and Emily just laughs and waves him off. She's here to make him feel better after all, and nothing gets Derek back on his feet like unattached sex.

Everyone's still there, Dave the only exception, having begged off due to "old age". Emily makes a note to rag on him about it later as she slides in next to Hotch, If she's honest, she doesn't really expect Hotch to acknowledge her. The last time they'd actually been in the same room he'd seen her naked in his bed every night and given no indication of their much more intimate relationship.

But once she's settled into the booth, his hand immediately finds her bare thigh and she realizes with a sharp inhale, she couldn't have been more wrong. His eyes are dark, hot and it makes her breath catch. This isn't the quietness she's used to. There's nothing subtle when he looks at her. She shivers, violently, and his hand tightens on her knee. It's the only greeting they exchange.

She's not sure what happens in the next while. She's too focused on Hotch's fingers, the way they stroke against her skin. She looks down, his long fingers wrapped around her knee. She can't say her knee's been an erogenous zone before, but his heated palm is certainly spiking her bloody pressure. When she looks back up, JJ meets her eyes with a smug smile.

She blushes. "I'll… be back."

She needs five minutes, time to calm down. God, it's like she's desperate and she's not. She has better control than that.

But Jesus if the man doesn't turn her on.

She braces her hands on the vanity in the women's washroom. She wants to splash water on her face but she's allergic to most waterproof mascaras and she's sure as hell not wasting the painstaking time she took on her eyeshadow either. She runs the cold water over her wrists instead, trying to even her breathing. When she looks up, she almost releases a startled shriek. Hotch is there, sliding into the bathroom behind her. There's no one else here, but it's not a single washroom. There are stalls, sinks and there's an odd mixture of heated thrill and genuine fear that follows the knowledge that she just cannot lock the door and have her way with him.

Emily opens her mouth to tell him it's a bad idea, she's sure, but he's got her by the wrist, then the waist and against him before the words form. Then his mouth is on hers and thought flies from her head.

He's not gentle, not his mouth, nor his hands that race over her skin. They dig into her hips, press against the small of her back, clench on her ass. His teeth clash with hers, his tongue barely giving her a chance to respond. He slides his hand up her back, clenches in her hair and yanks. Her throat is exposed as she squeaks and he actually groans as he looks down at her. His lips slide down her neck until his teeth can dig into her pulse point. She gasps, her hips pushing into his.

She can feel the bulge, press against her in all the right and delicious ways. She shudders, her whole body vibrating against his. He takes control, he's taken control. He's got a hand on her thigh, her knee, pulling it around his hip. His hand clenches, lifts and she lets out a surprised sound again because she's losing her balance. It's seems to be what he wants because he boosts her, manages to get her leg on her hip. It's not comfortable and she feels like she's falling so she clenches her thighs around his hips, her arms around his neck and yanks.

He groans like he's in pain, but carries her to the handicapped stall. He shoves her against the wall, cushioning her head with his hand. The other he takes from her ass, somehow managing to wedge his hand between them. He grabs and yanks and she gasps when she hears the lace of her panties tear.

His fingers are there and she's actually, very suddenly, thankful for his hand on her knee. She's soaking she's sure he felt it through her lace. He drives two fingers into her and she chokes at the friction and pleasure that spikes through her. He gives her no time, no reprieve. He starts up a fast rhythm. His thumb moves, presses, and it takes maybe two minutes to have her clenching and flying, as he watches with demon dark eyes.

"God, you're gorgeous." It's the first thing he's said but she most certainly doesn't care. The climax is still rolling through her, little aftershocks and singing nerves where his hands are against her skin. It's good, but she wants more.

So much more.

She claws at his dress pants, cursing him for not changing into goddamn jeans. She shoves, does some acrobatics, and somehow manages to get his pants down and her hand on him. He groans, loud, and she lifts her free hand to press it against his mouth. His eyes spark and flare, then his hands are shifting, and she's guiding him inside. This time, she groans as she feels every inch. He reaches up, forcibly removing her hand from his mouth so he can fuse his mouth to hers. It muffles her moans, even her whimpers as he starts up a bruising pace. She does not flinch. Her hands clench, digging into his shoulders. Then they shift, clenching in his neck and she knows she's leaving crescent shaped marks and she can't say she cares.

He bites at her lip and one of her hands drops to his ass, hoping to drive him faster, harder. She's getting closer and closer and she knows by the way her gut is tightening that her muscles inside are fluttering around him, just on the edge. He pushes harder, faster. Every push sends her back into the wall, her head bouncing on the tiles, but she could not care less. She barely feels it. All she can feel is the way his hips piston into hers, the way his hands are gripping her thighs, the way he's using his tongue roughly against hers to try and muffle her enthusiastic sounds.

Then he's pulling away and she's gasping for air, flying impossibly higher as her lungs try to remember how to function.

"Emily," he growls, actually _growls_ and her stomach clenches. He pushes his mouth to hers and when he pulls back his eyes are black. "Mine."

Her heart squeezes, painfully, but her arousal makes her stomach flip deliciously and her body is all but exploding. She realizes as she shakes and shivers with her orgasm that he's not moving. He's just letting her ride it out as he sits, hard as hell, within her. Her eyes flutter open and they lock on hers, possession in every line of his face.

"Yours."

His forehead drops to hers and he moves in earnest, hard slow strokes that jerk her up the wall with every push. She gasps, because she's still sensitive, but he doesn't seem to care. She whimpers, whines, and as she shifts, pushes, she's absolutely shocked when her body actually responds. She tumbles over the edge again, every muscle in her body going stiff. He follows, thrusting up into her one more time as his body goes taut.

When her vision clears, she's surprised to find them seated on the toilet. He's managed to tuck himself back in and she's straddling his lap, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He feels her stir and his hands cup her face, eyes searching hers.

"You didn't tell me you were flying in."

She shakes her head.

He uses his fingers to brush back her hair. "Why?"

She doesn't answer, tries to convey all her anxiousness, nervousness and worry by her fidgeting body, her reluctance to even meet his eyes. He takes it in, then pulls her to him. He kisses her and she cannot help but respond. When he pulls away, it's only far enough to press his forehead to hers.

"Mine," he says so soft. "Mine, Emily."

Her breath catches, her heart pounds. She can hear what he's asking for, of course she can. It's different now, than only moments ago, in the moments of passion. This one will be real. This one will tie her to him, even across an ocean. She blows out a breath, searching his gaze, because nothing has changed. Not a damn thing.

"Aaron-"

"Emily."

Her body goes taut, her spine straightens. There's so much emotion in that simple utterance of her name; emotion she does not want to identify.

He kisses her again, then nuzzles his nose against hers. "Mine," he whispers.

Her breath shudders out of her lungs. "Yours," she whispers back.

And in a public bathroom, they become more.

* * *

_Back to back updates always make me feel like a crazy person, but I had a bunch of days at the cottage and my muse decided that was a great time to visit. So, two chapters straight. Not sure when I'm going to get to five (because if you don't know there's going to be more right now, we need to have a talk), but I think I have the idea of it. We've still got a far ways to go before I get them where I'm aiming to!_

_All the thanks in the world to you lovely folks who leave reviews. Some of you make me smile, some of you have me in stitches, and it's worth battling over these stories day in and day out. You all make it so worth it to do this as a hobby. _


	5. The fifth time

**…she's homesick**

The fifth time it happens, she's homesick.

It's a weird feeling that settles over her somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's been months since she's been stateside, her Thing with Hotch sustained by Skype and phone and some down right raunchy e-mails. It makes her feel a little like a teenager and a lot like she's too old to be maintaining a long-distance relationship.

Except. She doesn't once take steps to change it.

Plus, they've added Jack to the conversations that stay PG. God, she misses him, brutally and terribly. His sweet smile, his adorable round face. He's getting older and there's a part of Emily, while recognizing she's not his parent, that feels like she's missing out on all the major milestones in his life.

So, she boards a plane.

It's a ninety percent impulse decision, actually – so her airfare is actually relatively reasonable – and she doesn't call anyone until she's touched down. She knows the team's at home, knows that they're not away, or at least hopes they haven't been called on an emergency in the last eight hours she's been on the transatlantic flight.

And, like she'd promised too many months ago, her first call is to Hotch.

"Emily."

His voice is low, warm, a key indicator that he's alone. She privately calls the voice hers. "Aaron."

"You sound exhausted, sweetheart."

Definitely alone then. He uses a shocking amount of endearments with her when there's no one around to hear them. At first, it had thrown her off entirely. Now, she gauges his mood by them.

"Just got off a plane."

"Oh?"

She sucks in a deep breath because, well, she could have made a real mistake. "I'm in DC."

"What?"

"I'm in DC," she repeats. "Just deplaned at Dulles."

She likes Dulles better, she'd told him once. Feels like it's more cohesive than Reagan.

"A case?"

"No," she says, and has to breath again. God, this shouldn't be so hard. She should feel welcome, shouldn't she? She already has a warm glow suffusing her chest, a calm settling over a stomach that is often rolling uncomfortably, but there's a distinct tension that keeps her back ramrod straight. "No case."

Sometimes, with all his intelligence, it takes him a few minutes to catch on. "You're visiting."

"Um. Yes. Spur of the moment."

There's silence for a moment, then shuffling. Even so, she holds her breath.

"I'll call you when we get there."

Emily grins like her first crush just promised to carry her books to first period.

* * *

"Why are you here?" he asks, late that night. Jack's been asleep for hours. They'd fooled around like teenagers on the couch, then moved it to the bedroom. She's so glad she knows how to keep quiet.

"I don't know," she says. "I just- got on a plane."

"And we're lucky you landed here?"

He has the oddest secret sense of humour. "Yeah. Something like that."

More like something corny about northern stars and coming home, but she knows that's going to poke into conversations she doesn't want to have. She doesn't want to talk about how London is shockingly unsatisfying. She doesn't want to talk about the fact that she misses her family more than anything. And she definitely doesn't want the always-practical Hotch to tell her to just move back. She's not sure what she'd been looking for when she'd left, but she knows she hasn't found it yet.

His hands are spreading across her body, stroking naked skin and for God's sake, he should not be doing that. She swallows.

"I- I don't know," she says, soft. His hands are moving with purpose now, stroking across her belly button, up under her breasts. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. They _just _finished. This is ridiculous. But she can feel her body responding, the way her nipples tighten, the ache that's already starting to settle south of her belly button.

He hums, nudging her. She sits up against him obligingly, gives him more space to play as she spreads her legs just a bit. His fingers trail to her inner thigh. It's gentle, but she shivers, feels the way her skin all but vibrates beneath his touch. It should not be like this. They're adults, honest to God, fully-grown, home-owning adults. Yet here she is, naked in his bed after three separate orgasms on her end, and her body's telling her she could go again.

Jesus, a teenager. She's a freaking teenager. Her hormones must be out of whack. She's half way through wondering where she is in her cycle, if many her hormones really are out of whack, when his fingers brush through the sticky curls at the apex of her thighs. Her breath catches, her head tilts back. His chuckle sounds low in her ear.

"Shit," she breathes.

He hums. "Something missing?"

It takes her a minute to find enough brain cells to speak. "Missing?"

"From your life, Emily."

She shivers again. His voice is low in her ear, a growl as he looks down her body. Shit. He's watching, watching his fingers as they play against her skin, as they slide inwards, opening her up. Her legs widen and he grips one thigh, tugging it up over his. He bends his knee, anchoring her open.

"Oh," she gasps. "Wh-what- _Aaron_."

His finger's just brushed over her clit and her thoughts scatter. God, he wants her to have a conversation right now? She's kind of busy trying to process what the hell her body is doing. Her hips are moving with his hand, a little fretfully, echoing her thoughts.

"Emily," he rumbles, applies her mouth to her neck. There's a spot just behind her ear that makes her shudder violently, sends her hips pushing into his fingers. There's not a lot of pressure on her clit though, just a gentle stroke, enough to tease. "Is there something missing from your life."

Her hands bunch against his thighs, little crescents showing up where her nails are digging into his skin. He doesn't seem to care, his hips tilting towards her. God, even he should not be ready to go again. It hasn't been long enough for either of them to recover, but she can feel him against her ass. She actually whimpers when her removes his fingers. They return a moment later, after he adjusts her thigh. He's using his legs to keep her butterflied open now, completely exposed. It shouldn't do anything for her, she's too self-conscious, but he has her basically pinned. His mouth is at her ear, his arm around her waist, cupping a breast. His other hand is between her splayed thighs as he plays with her.

"It's good," she manages, honestly not quite sure what she's talking about, his touch or London.

His touch shifts then, demanding. His fingers pinch at her nipple, little shocks, the same time his teeth catch her earlobe. Her breathing hitches, her body shifting. Then he's sliding two well-practiced fingers inside and she clenches on them automatically. She's close, she thinks, his hand pressing against her clit. She could use a little more pressure.

"Everything you want on a whole other continent," he murmurs, voice low and rough. He doesn't move his fingers, doesn't do much more than press gently against her clit. It's a tease, the gentle touch of his palm, the feeling of his fingers inside.

"Aaron," she says. "Aaron, please."

His hand slides down from her breast, clutching at her hip to keep her from thrusting against his fingers. "Do you have friends there?" he asks, his voice suddenly and terrifyingly as if he doesn't have a care in the world. She'd be worried if it weren't for the way his hips are moving against her ass. Tiny, gentle thrusts that tell her he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"What about family?"

God, she doesn't know. She doesn't know much beyond the feeling of his hand. His body's behind her, his mouth against her. Her hips are pushing down on his fingers, trying for more, but he's stronger than her, relentless. He can't actually want her to answer these questions, does he? How the hell is she supposed to think when he's pressing against her so intimately?

"What about me?"

The same time he asks, he shoves his fingers up, pressing inward like he's trying to make a fist. It puts delicious pressure on her clit and she flies apart, biting her lip to muffle the noise. She can't help the pathetic-sounding whimper though as he holds her there, wringing every drop of her climax from her exhausted over-stimulated body.

The room is still a bit blurry when she can open her eyes again and her body is virtually shivering from everything she's put it through in the last few hours. She is wrung out. But not enough for the next thought that slides through her mind.

He's flattened his legs, allowing her freedom of movement again. She turns around, grasping the hand that had been between her thighs just moments ago. He's wiped it off, on the sheets, she guesses, but there are still some slick spots. She slides the first finger into her mouth, cleaning it thoroughly before speaking.

"What about you?"

His eyes are dark and hot on her, watching as she cleans his second finger as thoroughly as the first. It isn't until she's set to work on his palm that he speaks.

"Missing in London."

She stops. Dead. Completely. Her eyes are stunned when they meet his. The last time they'd been together he'd been insistent, possessive. She'd known at the end that this was no longer the stringless fling it has started out as. There's more here, more between them, and she'd been living under the impression that he knew that. He's not insecure, really. He's got a few little pockets, but not here. Never here. He's never doubted her before.

She sits back on her heels, completely ignoring the nakedness between them – and if that isn't a metaphor she's not entirely sure what is. "Are you asking me if I miss you?"

He's not surprised by her bluntness. It's a part of her, like breathing. Cultivated too; years of political pretend grating on her nerves.

She huffs out of breath. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?"

God, what is it with him and stripping down all her barriers. She's 'his' isn't she? As much as she can be considering three-quarters of her life is across the ocean. She just- She can't be here; stateside. She can't. She's not ready. There's too much emotional baggage, too much upheaval for her to want to be back permanently. There's too much darkness.

Maybe someday, but she can't honestly say she's holding her breath.

"Of course you are," she says, her fingers brushing through the hair on his chest. It's not something she's ever really liked in a man, but she finds the feeling both soothing and arousing. She can't go again, not without dying, but he's semi-hard as she kneels between his thighs. Her mind's already shifting. "Of course I miss you."

He puffs out a breath and reaches for her wandering hand. She bats it away, shooting him a bit of a glare. His hand hangs there for a moment as he watches her. She watches back, her hand still sliding down his body until she's got him in her fist. His hips tilt, subtly, but since her hand is right there, she can feel it.

"You think this is all we are?" she asks, deliberately dropping her voice. It's a two-purpose thing really, because Jack's just down the hall and they really do need to keep it down. There are no locks on the doors, after all, and anything from an odd sound to an outright nightmare could send Jack scurrying into the room.

He hasn't asked many questions, Jack, but she's pretty sure neither of them wants to even contemplate the questions he'd ask if Jack found them right now.

"You think I travelled across _continents_ just for this?"

His hand rises to her hair, fists at the bottom of her scalp. She knows he's squeezing, but can't feel it. He's not tugging. "You could."

That hurts. A lot. A shocking amount, really. They've never talked about what 'mine' and 'yours' really means. She hasn't really taken it to mean a relationship. Not really. Not with continents between them. She can't really say she's felt like she's had the right to go out and find someone else to scratch this itch.

Not that she's scratching an itch here.

There's emotion wrapped up in this, probably more than he even knows. She's not going to tell him, she can't ask that of him. She's not ready to come back and she's pretty sure that _any_ emotion on his part will have her packing her bags in London before she's even left this time around.

Except.

She's also had a lot more time. She's been invested in him for a lot longer than he's been invested in her. He's not where she is, she knows that.

"Did it feel like it?" she asks, shuffling back a little. She gets her hand moving now, sliding up and down. She feels the way he's hardening in her palm. "Did it feel like I was just here for this, Aaron?"

His eyes are dark and fixed on hers as he reaches for her. "Emily."

She dodges him, pushing in so she can get her mouth on her collarbone. His hands ghost along her shoulders, down her arms as she heads down his chest. She stops just above his heart, presses her teeth into his skin. She bites, licks, sucks, leaves a heck of a mark before she raises her head.

"Am I yours?" She trails her mouth down, content with the red bruise already on his chest. It's a good solid mark. It'll be pretty shades of purple in the morning.

His hand cards through her hair, watching her face. He's unsure, she's surprised to see, but it doesn't deter her as she skirts his belly button. Her hand hasn't stopped moving and he's hardening slowly in her palm. She lets her eyes flutter shut as she gets closer to him, as she feels her hand brush her own cheek with every pull. "Tell me."

His chest is rising faster now, his palm gently cupping her head. She'll change that, though he's been so reluctant before. Thing is, she has a point to prove, and she is going to make him.

She hovers over him, aware her breath is fanning over the tip with her every exhale. "Aaron."

"Yes," he says and there's a gentle nudge at the back of her head. Yeah, he's going to have to do better than that.

She keeps her hand moving, not nearly enough pressure, and definitely not fast enough. She presses her lips to the head, relaxing as she lowers her mouth enough to envelop the tip. His breath hitches, his fingers tense and she's pretty sure the thunk she hears is his head hitting the headboard.

Because it's about trust. It's about him and her and everything between them. It's always more than this, it's always been more than this to her. From that first time, the sting of rejection and having to pull herself back together the next morning to be able to actually leave. Then the second time, snatched moments, a drive to fill her memory with them for when she's not here. There's less desperation in her now, less of a grab the moment and more about _them_.

Them.

She slides her head up, releasing him, biting her cheek against the unconscious bereft noise he makes. She's discovered that this is where all the emotion is, that the man so tightly harnessed outside of the bedroom can come so utterly undone within it. She's loud, but he can certainly compete.

So she nudges her head back against the hand tangled in her hair. "Aaron. Am I yours?"

He looks down, jaw tense. She's not teasing, though she can see how he'd think that. Her face, however, has no artifice in it, no trace of the mischief necessary for a tease. "Yes."

She pushes her head into his hand again. His face transforms as he realizes what she wants, his other hand sliding up her neck. She feels the way he lifts her hair of her nape, feels the cold air of his apartment drift across her skin. Then he's guiding her mouth back to him.

He's gentle at first, polite, right up until she gets her teeth on him. It's barely a graze but his wrists tense reflexively and shove her down harder. She doesn't gag. She'd taught herself not to early, like a party trick back in her wild child rebellious days. She relaxes her jaw, lets him push and push and push until he's groaning at just how much she can take.

His rhythm is fast and rough after that, making her sloppy. She's making such a mess of him, can't seem to make him slow down, give her a moment to clean him up and she definitely doesn't try and wrestle the control from his hands. There's a pleasurable pain that comes from the way he tugs on her hair and her hands brace against the base of him. She knows when it's coming, can feel the way his thighs tense and his stomach trembles.

"Emily-"

This time when he tugs her up, she fights him, stops her head despite the yank on her hair with just his head in her mouth. Her eyes dart up to meet his, determination and challenge in her eyes.

"Jesus, Emily, I-"

He's tugging again, but she refuses. She's going to do this, _wants_ to do this. She sucks, hard, and his hips arch as his hands slam her down. He's so deep that she has a hard time swallowing but she does what she can, licking to clean him up as his hands go lax. Her hair's probably a mess, mouth so very swollen but she does not care.

She kisses her way up, presses her mouth to his despite his little flinch. He's not the biggest fan of his own taste then.

She does not care.

"I am yours," she says when they part, shifting as he wraps his arms around her. She shifts for him, straddling his legs as he brings them together, muscling herself in close. Her mouth is at his ear, her hands in his hair. "Only yours. I miss you every day, Aaron. Every day. I _miss_ you."

He shuffles them down as she continues to mutter in his ear, how she's his, how she's here, how she's flown across continents on a whim because _he is here_. He falls asleep like that, with her sprawled over his body, one hand against her neck, the other against her lower back.

It takes her longer though, her mind spinning. She's just more open, she tells herself. She's just been through so much more, has accepted friends, relationships, has relied on them better than he does. She can tell him that she's here, that she damn well isn't going anywhere.

And she can fool herself into believing that she doesn't need to hear it back.

That he doesn't need to tell her.

Even as it breaks her heart.

* * *

_You didn't think it was going to be all sunshine and rainbows, did you? Ha! That would make it easy!_

_I had a shocking amount of fun writing this one. There's two neat little storylines going on here that I'm kind of weaving together and it's great when I can use them both at the same time, plus wrap it up in some smut._

_Thanks for sticking with me and reading along!_


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